


Pretty, in a Way

by ineswrites



Series: Pretty, in a Way [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dammit Westfahl, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Knifeplay, M/M, PWP, Toxic Relationship, creepy Jack Rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:37:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Jack Rollins is into some stuff. Brock isn't, but he is into Jack.A fill for a prompt on hydratrashmeme.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Anon needs trash/noncon with lots of focus on knifeplay and marking cuts all over and bleeding. Can be Hydra roughing up their Asset, or Hydra or their Asset roughing up a prisoner/target, who could be Steve.
> 
>  
> 
> [Link to prompt.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5116639#cmt5116639)
> 
>  
> 
> This version contains an additional scene that got cut from the originally posted fill due to its little relevance.

Brock isn’t sure what woke him up. Maybe the bumpy road, maybe the guys talking too loud. He opens his eyes to Jack playing with his butterfly knife, flipping it. Brock almost rolls his eyes. Jack and that thing are inseparable, like a child with its favorite toy. They’ve only known each other for less than two years and Brock is already more familiar with the knife than he is with the most of his teammates. Intimately familiar.

Jack flips the knife again and catches it, raises it to his lips and drags his tongue up its flat side. He looks up at Brock and grins. Brock’s throat goes dry. Fucking tease.

The guys obviously notice but nobody mentions it; they’re all used to Jack’s weird obsession, and besides, he’s probably been going at it for a while now.

The van they’re riding in turns left and halts. Brock hears the doors in the front open and shut. The guys get up, Westfahl opens the backdoor and they all exit to the sidewalk in front of their safehouse for the night.

“I call dibs on the shower,” Mercer says.

“The Soldier calls dibs on the shower,” Brock says. “He’s caked in people.”

Mercer regards the Soldier, her eyes lingering on the chunks of meat caught in his hair. “I guess you have a point.”

The guys slowly grab their bags and enter the safehouse, while Brock rummages through their supplies, searching for the Soldier’s things.

“Who was responsible for the asset’s bag?” he asks with his hands resting on his hips when he doesn’t find them.

“Westfahl,” Jack replies tersely. He’s leaning on the opened backdoor, the tip of his knife pressed against his lower lip.

Brock rubs his temples. “And who thought it was a good idea to make him responsible for anything?”

He tries to keep calm. It’s not easy with Jack extending the tip of his tongue to taste the blade while looking as unbothered as possible.

“Must feel pretty nice, huh,” Brock snarls at him. “Just not giving a flying fuck.”

Jack shrugs. “It is pretty nice.”

Brock does roll his eyes this time. He shuts the door and walks to the safehouse, motioning for the Soldier to follow him.

“Your bag, Westfahl.” He extends his hand upon entering the living room. Westfahl is sitting on the hard wooden floor; the safehouse isn’t exactly cozy, but it has a roof and running water and it’s all they need tonight.

“Why? What did I do?” Westfahl asks but hands Brock his duffel bag. Brock opens it, finds an all-in-one shower gel and shampoo and hands it to the Soldier. “Why?” Westfahl prompts. “He has his own.”

“He would have, if you fucking packed it.”

Westfahl’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

Jack, who’s standing behind them, snorts.

“Boss, a question.” Mercer raises her hand. “What made you handpick Westfahl for the team?”

That is a good question. Brock might have been drunk that day.

“Yeah, and what makes you keep him?” Bourne asks.

“I’m kinda waiting for him to go west on the field,” Brock admits. He’s been expecting it during the first two weeks of Westfahl’s service, but it’s his third year going now, and he’s still miraculously alive. Which means he has to have some skill after all.

“Get off me,” Westfahl mutters. “Everybody forgets things sometimes.”

“Somehow it’s always you,” Mercer says.

Brock is the last one to use the bathroom. The water’s cold so he decides to give up on the shower and just washes his face in the sink. He’s not that dirty anyway. When he exits, the team is still in the living room, gathered around the fireplace, half of them eating their MREs.

“Where’s the Soldier?” Brock asks upon noticing his absence.

“Upstairs with Rollins,” Bourne replies.

Brock raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“He was wearing that odd look again so we didn’t ask,” Mercer clarifies.

“Hoo, he creeps me out.” Westfahl shudders. “Why did you handpick _him_?”

“Who doesn’t creep you out? Don’t answer that, it was a rhetorical question.”

Rooms upstairs are empty. This isn’t a commonly used safehouse, and they carry sleeping bags with them at all times anyway, there’s no need for actual beds. Which begs the question of why the hell Jack brought the Soldier here – there isn’t really much to do.

Only one door is shut close so Brock tries it first. He walks in and freezes, because his imagination made up several different scenarios of what Jack might be doing, but this isn’t what he expected.

And he doesn’t know why. He knows Jack well enough know. He should have expected that.

The Soldier is kneeling in the middle of the empty, dusty room, naked from the waist up. He has two diagonal cuts close to the corners of his eyes; blood runs down his cheeks, making it look like he’s crying it. The Soldier’s cold blue eyes are fixed on Jack standing above him, but they flick to Brock once he enters.

Jack remains unaware of his presence. He caresses the Soldier’s left cheek with that fucking knife of his, lightly enough not to break the skin. He catches a drop of blood on the blade and watches it run down until it reaches the hilt. Brock can’t see his face but he can imagine his expression well enough, he’s seen it. Until now, it was reserved for him.

“What the hell?” he asks.

He doesn’t manage to keep the anger out of his voice but maybe it’s better, maybe Jack should be aware he just got himself in a hell of a trouble. He shuts the door behind him and walks up to them with his fists clenched tight. The Soldier’s eyes flick to him again.

Jack turns to face Brock, takes notice of his angry frown and trembling fists but doesn’t look a tiny bit fazed by it. He presses the blade to the Soldier’s face again, runs the tip down his neck in a caricature of a caress and Brock’s eyes follow it. That’s when he notices another mark on the Soldier – two bloody letters carved into the pale skin right below his left collarbone. JR. Jack fucking signed him.

“You fucker,” Brock snaps.

He grabs Jack’s arm hard enough to bruise and shakes him. The fucker doesn’t get to sign Hydra’s asset with his name while all he leaves on Brock are straight, impersonal lines. He doesn’t get to mark the Soldier’s face where everybody can see while Brock’s marks are hidden from the eyes of the world. He doesn’t get to show him off as his new favorite toy while Brock remains his dirty little secret.

“Calm down.” Jack clutches Brock’s wrist painfully, digging his nails into the toned skin until Brock lets go of him and shoves his hand away. “I was just bored. He pouts funny when I cut him.”

Brock glares at him, still clenching his fists, trying to control his shallow breathing. “That’s because he thinks you’re punishing him and he’s trying to figure out what he’s done wrong. He doesn’t understand you’re just fucked in the head.”

“Huh” is Jack’s only response. Brock’s ready to turn and leave – he’s not gonna just let it go, of course, no, nobody just ditches Brock Rumlow, and certainly not like that, Jack’s gonna pay for that – but not now, now Brock’s done with this shit and he just wants to go to sleep. Maybe Mercer packed those little bottles of whisky and he can have some, too. Maybe Westfahl does something stupid again and Brock can torment him a little, that would be nice.

“Wanna try it?” Jack asks and Brock freezes, all his angry thoughts dissolving into nothingness. Jack’s looking at him with genuine curiosity.

Brock doesn’t care about cutting. It’s always Jack doing it and Brock never once asked or wanted to switch places. For him, Jack’s knife could not exist. But it does, and Jack happens to be quite fond of it, so when he insists on including it in their sex life, Brock lets him. Jack doesn’t take refusal lightly, and Brock kind of likes the pain of it, likes how it feels like love.

So Brock doesn’t exactly want to try it. But it’s not about what he wants, it’s about Jack including him in this… whatever he’s been doing. It’s about Jack wanting him.

He reaches out for Jack’s knife, but Jack jerks his hand away.

“You have your own.”

Brock’s lips curl in a scowl and he drops his hand, pulls out his own knife instead. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than you do me.”

Jack shrugs. “It’s not gonna wake up one day and decide it doesn’t wanna be with me anymore.”

Brock rolls his eyes at that, flicks his knife open and sinks to his knees in front of the Soldier. The Soldier’s eyes follow him, shifting to the shiny blade every other second, and he starts fidgeting unsurely.

“Stay still,” Jack barks at him and the Soldier stills, only his chest raising and falling in time with his quickened breath.

The skin splits open beneath the sharp blade; the cut fills with blood and drops run down the Soldier’s right pec. The Soldier doesn’t show any new signs of discomfort, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. The Soldier knows pain – this, this is nothing.

Cutting a straight line is easy. A crescent, now, that is more tricky. Cutting skin isn’t as simple as cutting fruit, carving something in it is even harder. When Brock’s done, his letter B is crooked, blood smeared all around it. He looks at Jack’s curvy letters with a new found admiration for his skill.

He rests a hand on the Soldier’s shoulder to support himself, leaving a bloody print. He doesn’t pay it any mind, already focused on carving the second letter. He gives up on trying to make it curvy; his R is combined of four straight lines. It’s easier and quicker that way, but on the other hand, it’s less painful for the Soldier.

Brock leans away to admire his work. There are now two sets of initials on the Soldier’s chest. It is… pretty, in a way. Doesn’t really do anything for Brock sexually-wise, but he can see where Jack is coming from.

A warm hand rests on the back of Brock’s neck, fingers play with the tips of his hair. Brock leans into the touch and looks up at Jack. Jack stares at the Soldier hungrily, his other hand rubbing his crotch through his pants. At least one of them is having fun.

Jack’s hand abandons Brock’s neck to grab the Soldier’s jaw. The fingers dig into his cheeks, trying to force his mouth open. The cuts on his face stopped bleeding; the blood left tear-like stains on his skin.

“Open it,” Jack growls and the Soldier’s jaw goes slack, his lips part. Jack whips out his hard cock and forces himself inside. “No teeth.”

The Soldier gags when the head hits the back of his throat; he tries to draw away, but Jack grabs a handful of his hair and pulls to keep him in place.

“You like it, huh? Keep going.”

He addresses Brock this time. Brock holds his knife a little tighter and cuts in the Soldier’s shoulder, so Jack can comfortably watch him from his position. He drives the blade deeper, and the Soldier shudders and whimpers on Jack’s cock when he drags it down. Blood spills on Brock’s fingers and he can’t help a grin that spreads on his face. It’s not that he loves sucking cock, but it should be his mouth on Jack’s dick.

It takes more effort, to carve so deeply, but it’s worth it. It might be that his knife just isn’t sharp enough. Brock doesn’t think he’s ever sharpened it during his career, but truth be told, he hardly ever uses it. He isn’t in love with it, like Jack. No, Brock forms healthy relationships with actual living people.

The Soldier’s body keeps moving back and forth along with Jack’s thrusts, and it’s making Brock’s work that much harder. At least he’s not gagging anymore. Jack grunting above him every once in a while is also a distraction, as is Brock’s own hard-on throbbing against the thick material of his pants. When he’s done, everything’s in blood – the Soldier, his hands, his knife, the floor. Brock leans away, stretches his back and looks at the angry red letters. This is definitely the longest he’s ever hailed Hydra.

“Lick it.”

Brock glances up to make sure Jack’s talking to him. He catches the sight of the Soldier’s face. His eyes are leaking real tears now, washing away the dried blood on his cheeks, but Brock isn’t sure if it’s from the cuts or his mouth being stretched, or both. Brock watches Jack’s long cock drag out of the Soldier’s red mouth, spit spilling down his chin, and breath catches in his throat. His hand creeps up to his crotch, presses against his erection, but he stops himself there. His eyes go back to the Soldier’s shoulder.

Brock tasted his own blood before, when he split his lip and bit his tongue. He knows what to expect, and there are grosser things to lick, as far as he’s concerned. On the other hand, this is the Soldier’s blood. Brock isn’t hundred percent positive it’s safe.

“Go ahead,” Jack prompts him. “I know you want it.”

Brock doesn’t, not really, but Jack does, so he leans in and licks the Soldier’s skin, where the blood dried off. He runs his tongue along the H, and it leaves a metallic taste – nothing unexpected here. He can feel the Soldier’s muscles tense under him – the cut must sting. Jack’s fingers tangle into Brock’s hair and Brock laps at the bloody cuts more eagerly. The taste isn’t entirely unpleasant, but Brock can feel his cock go soft anyway.

Jack tugs his hair gently and Brock pulls away, looking up at him expectantly.

“Lick the knife.”

Brock raises an eyebrow. “I’ll cut myself.”

“You won’t.”

Brock lays the flat side of the blade onto his tongue. It’s sticky with blood, but his mouth is already full of its taste, so he doesn’t mind that much. He moves the knife up and down, the way he’s seen Jack do a hundred times, and as much as he doesn’t care about knives, this always seemed to do the trick for him. He speeds up, watching Jack with his eyelids half-closed, very aware of how hot he looks.

Jack’s hips jerk forward and he holds the Soldier’s head in place as he comes with an exhale; for all the previous moaning and grunting, he finishes quietly. He withdraws from the Soldier’s mouth, slowly, and tucks himself away. Brock stops licking the knife and wonders briefly if it’ll be okay if he spits, but he swallows the bloody saliva in the end. He wipes the knife on the Soldier’s pants and stands up. Jack cups his face and kisses him, licks inside his mouth, chasing the lingering metallic taste. When he pulls away, he’s grinning.

“That’s a good look on you,” he says softly, rubbing Brock’s chin with his thumb.

Brock realizes he must look like a toddler that just went through a jar of strawberry jam. He gently pushes Jack away.

“I’m gonna get a wash,” he says, already walking towards the door. “If anybody’s still awake and they ask me why I look like a fucking vampire, I’m telling them exactly what happened here.” And screw how Jack feels about it. He still deserves to be punished, even if Brock isn’t angry anymore.

Jack seems unfazed. He shrugs. “They’re not gonna care.”

And he’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> Mercer and Westfahl are OCs borrowed from stoatsandwich and Dira Sudis respectively.
> 
> James Bourne is a mercenary in Marvel Comics.


End file.
